Thriller Diller
by Fuzzy Peaches1
Summary: Thriller Diller (def.) something like a movie, book, or television program that is thrilling. Claire Cicero takes the law into her own hands one time, and she likes it. A lot. (rated M because it's an excuse for smut)
1. Chapter 1

The things people did to each other were horrific. Claire Cicero closed her eyes and breathed through her mouth, but that didn't help. The metallic sting of all the blood was on her tongue and the back of her throat. The image of a ruined body left for dead was burned on the back of her eyelids.

"CeeCee, you okay?"

She blinked, nodding already before even meeting Trevor Davis's gaze. The other detective was eyeing her up with concern, hand on her elbow. He was about ten years' her senior but had always taken a fatherly role with her more than senior officer, even though she'd been working for the San Joaquin's Sheriff's Department for ten years already.

She'd never seen this kind of shit before. This was beyond traffic violations and parade security. They might have to start doing real law enforcement work here.

The vice squad was made up of men. They'd already asked her to be bait for this prick, and she told them she would. Now she was scared. Not because of what she saw in the bathroom of this fleabag motel. Because she knew who had done this.

Claire had been at this motel bar the night before. She saw the man who had led this platinum blonde out of the bar right past her.

She was torn. She could describe him, she knew she could. Then she'd have to answer why she was at this bar the night before, and that would be uncomfortable for a few reasons. The main reason was standing behind her. She looked over her shoulder, catching sight of Mark Trenton, tall in uniform, watching the door, keeping non-law-enforcement people out of sight of the scene.

He wore the shit out of his uniform. The sleeves were tight on his biceps, the front snug across his chest. And don't even get her started on how the pants fit his ass. Of course it was physical between them. The night before they'd met at the bar for a beer then went to a room on the other wing of the motel for a couple of hours.

They _had _to meet at the hotel; his wife wouldn't want to see his car at the neighbour's house.

Claire looked back at the body, ignoring the fact she was a shitty member of the "sisterhood" for fucking around with a married man. Her transgressions weren't going to help this woman lying in a pool of her own blood on the floor.

"I think it's time we really consider starting a sting operation to catch this prick," Deputy Davis mumbled.

Claire nodded. "Yeah."


	2. Chapter 2

The motel room-come-crime-scene had been paid for in cash, of course. No hair, no prints anywhere in the room. He was squeaky-clean whoever he was. And Claire only had her own recollection.

His head was bald and shiny, so it was maintained. He wore suits but they didn't strike her as expensive or something he tried to impress with. Her initial suspicion was a salesman, away from home and stepping out on his wife while he had the chance.

The very next day she went through the mail that came to her home while she was at work the day before the murder. There were flyers and mail-outs, but only one card with a hand-written notice.

_Shame we missed you! For more information on the right renter's insurance for you please call_ and there was a space for a name and phone number, hand written on the black line. A long shot, but a place to start.

She called this "Patrick McManus" from her cell using the mobile number provided. She got his voice mail and left him a message asking him to call her the next time he was in Manteca. She left him her personal cell number.

Then she set her phone down on the motel side table and rested her weight on her elbows, propped on her knees.

What the hell was she doing here?

The answer came as a knock, and she crossed the room to answer it. She opened the door and hoped maybe this time her pulse might not speed up and her heart wouldn't kick at the sight of Mark Trenton.

And she failed on all of those, again.

He moved past her, pushing into the room. She caught the smell of his soap and aftershave. He came to her showered so it wasn't weird when he came home still smelling like a freshly showered man.

Claire shut the door and leaned against it, watching Mark slowly turn around and sink to the foot of the bed. He didn't look enthused to be there either, so that was good.

"That's the girl we saw at the bar with the fat guy, right?" He aired it out so she caught it.

"Yeah, I think so."

He shook his head. "Damn, CeeCee. It was all I could do not to say it as soon as we saw her."

Claire nodded. "I know."

He scrubbed his face with both large, beautiful hands. She loved those hands and what they could do to her, and that made her body twitch in a pretty private spot. She tried to ignore it. "Man, what do we do with this?"

She shrugged, sitting in the arm chair angled towards the room's small dining table. "I don't know. What _can _we do? We know what he looks like, sort of? We don't have a name. There was no DNA. It wasn't like he was distinctive really."

Mark was nodding, staring at the TV which wasn't turned on. "Just another fat, bald white guy."

Claire got to her feet, approached him and stood with one leg between his, straddling one of his. He looked up at her, dark eyes shining and gorgeous. She ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, the coarseness of it scraping her palm in a pleasant way.

He inhaled and his nostrils flared which caused heat to pool between her legs. They didn't have much use for talking. _This _was what their relationship was mostly based on.

His hands circled her leg which stood between his. He ran them up past her knee, higher up her thigh. Her breath caught but he didn't press into the space between her legs. Instead he unbuttoned her jeans and pulled the zipper down.

As usual, Claire's brain shut off. Mark Trenton was going to use his beautiful hands between her legs to make her come without her having to take off a stitch of clothing. He slid his hand sideways to her crotch, rubbing at her over her underwear. She moaned, repositioning her legs to give him room, and put her hands on his shoulders for balance.

He watched her face. He liked that part.

Claire didn't toy with it, didn't put it off. She let it wash through her, her legs buckling so Mark had to catch her. And he did, twisting to put her down on the bed on her back. Then he rose up on his knees to unbutton his shirt.

Claire rose up on her elbows to watch. Jesus, he was gorgeous. All that dark skin was unveiled, taught over long and lean muscle. She sat up to get her hands on his skin, running her palms up his abs to the muscle that padded his chest.

"Shirt, CeeCee," he grumbled, and she immediately pulled her tee off over her head. His hands undid the bra easily, and he tossed it across the room before tumbling forward onto her.

Her hands worked to undo his jeans, and he gave her some room to reach inside. Like every other part of him, his cock was beautiful too. In her hand she knew what it looked like, and as she stroked at him she watched his face fall still, lip pulled between his teeth with his eyes closed and brow furrowed.

Okay, so she liked watching, too.

He didn't let her finish him though. He pulled her hand free and got up to shuck his shoes and jeans so she took the chance to do the same and pull the blankets down the bed. She intentionally did this buck-ass naked on her hands and knees, skin prickling as he made a groaning sound and pounced.

He forced her down to her stomach and slid inside from behind, making her moan low and loud. His hand wound under her body to grasp her by the neck, keeping her torso where he wanted it. She gave a back arch for the best angle. He gave it to her slow but he also gave it to her hard.

"Fuck CeeCee," he growled, knowing she liked it when he talked through it. "Don't ever lose that ass, girl."

She smiled, gasping at another deep thrust.

"Play with your nipple."

Without a pause she made room for her hand and rolled her nipple between her thumb and finger, the combination making her moan and twitch.

"Yeah, there it. You like that."

"Yes."

"Up to your knees."

She let him jerk her hips up without pulling out, the change making his cock hit the very end of her and she moaned again. But he kept her shoulders down, chest to the mattress.

"Touch yourself, CeeCee. Help me out."

Her other hand went between her legs, rubbing in time with his thrusts which grew faster and more urgent. She let her fingers trail back to where he slid in and out of her, and he groaned at that, too. He pounded away into her at a painfully even pace. The orgasm was building and she let him know.

"Mark, it's there."

"I feel it."

"Oh God, don't stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Fuck, you're so wet CeeCee."

Her eyes closed, she grew still other than her fingers on her clit, and he didn't let up. He kept thrusting right through it which made it go on and on until she was whimpering.

Then he planted deep on a grunt, fingers biting into her ass cheeks, and she felt a smile. "Fuck girl," he moaned, pulling free and kissing her back between her shoulder blades. "What is it about that ass anyway?"

She flopped to her side, sighing, and he climbed off the bed. He went straight to the shower, like she knew he would.

This was all there _ever_ was. A hot, intense tumble, no cuddling or cute shit. He'd shower, she'd leave, she'd arrive home then see his vehicle pull into its parking spot right next to hers. Then she'd watch as he let himself in his apartment right next door.

So stupid. So dangerous.

But it was the best sex she'd ever had. And he was over the moon, beyond reason fucking hot. Out of her league. But married men who wanted a piece of ass not wearing their wedding ring weren't that picky. They just wanted discretion, really.

Claire loved the ache between her legs as she dressed again. Two orgasms she didn't have to give herself with battery-operated appliances; that should give her a good night's sleep.

She didn't wait. She left on her own, checking out of the room she'd rented, climbed on her Harley Softail Classic, and headed for their apartment complex.

Claire let herself into the dark split-level, flicking on the light in the front foyer. She was picking up her mail when the real man in her life greeted her.

Her short-haired Tabby, unoriginally named Garfield, hopped up onto the small table she had by the coat hanger as a mail-and-keys catch all. He perched on the edge, sat with his tail curled around his bottom and trailing down over the edge.

"Hey handsome," she cooed, scratching him under his chin. "Miss me?"

There was an indifferent "Mraw," which basically meant he couldn't feed himself.

"Still nice to be wanted for something," she muttered, picking him up under the belly and holding him to her chest. "Let's make you some supper, gorgeous."


	3. Chapter 3

Patrick McManus was still in San Joaquin County. He was in Escalon, but "based on his response in Manteca," a claim which made Claire roll her eyes, he said he'd be stopping by in a couple days to meet with people.

Claire booked a coffee meeting with him for 2:30 in the afternoon. Then she did homework on the long line of escort murders dotting up and down the Pacific Coast. It _looked _like the work of a travelling salesman, that was for sure. But until she saw Patrick McManus again she wouldn't be operating on much more than a very strong hunch.

She showed at the diner at 1:45 and ordered lunch. While she picked at her salad the man from the motel bar walked in with a suitcase and sat at a table. She pretended to be reading a paper, and when he approached her with a friendly and inquisitive, "Claire Cicero?" she blinked at him a moment before shaking her head.

"Sorry, no," she said sincerely.

He asked it of every woman in the diner then sat down to wait.

At 2:45 he pulled out his phone. Claire was approaching the register to pay when she saw him do it. Luckily, she'd put her phone on silent when she sat down. He wanted to know where she was, obviously. She ignored the call, letting it go to voice mail.

Out in the parking lot she pulled on her leather jacket, helmet and goggles, knowing she'd look different to _anyone_ with all this on. She circled the block on her Harley, and when she came back around she saw him climbing into a car, a car with Oregon plates which she followed.

He left Manteca, and out on the highway it was a bit more comfortable following him.

Claire had a plan, an _insane_ plan, but she knew this was the guy without a doubt. She'd read the file, and she had recognized him immediately. He killed that blonde, and he had to have been the man that killed another seven women before the blonde, if not more.

He turned into a motel outside of a town called Charming. She blew past, headed in to town and toured main street a bit. She stopped to fill up at a service station, paying with cash. While she was waiting for the pump to do its thing a loud group of motorcycles rode by. She couldn't help it; she watched. They all wore matching leather kuttes. An actual motorcycle club. She'd never seen one before. As they roared past one of them touched his helmet almost in salute to her, and she couldn't help but return the gesture.

Respect between riders, even if she was a _broad_. So strange.

Claire headed back to the motel, pulling her overnight bag free of its storage bin. She headed for the office, paid for a night's stay in cash, and went to her room.

When suppertime arrived Claire walked to the corner store to get a sandwich which she carried back to the motel. Everything bought in cash.

When it started to get dark out she got herself tramped out. She had a leather skirt which she wiggled her ass into, and a filmy blouse artfully shredded and distressed with metal studs decorating the hem. She had a black bra on under it, nothing else.

Well, other than her Glock, which she tucked in a thigh holster. It was uncomfortable since she had to carry it between her thighs, but it just meant she had to walk like she was ridden hard and often. She also overdid the makeup, fitted the long wig over her short "boy" haircut easily. She packed her bag and placed it back in the storage bin on her bike. Then she headed to the motel bar to wait.

Claire made one beer last an hour and a half before Patrick McManus showed. There weren't any other women in the room, but she barely caught his notice. He sat down, ordered a cocktail and then got out his phone again.

She had to make it obvious that she was a _whore_, not a _slut_. So Claire started approaching men. The flirting was easy, it made her stomach queasy a bit when she could lean in and whisper, "Anything you want, fifty bucks."

Every man turned her down. Maybe that price was too high? That was a bit insulting.

Didn't matter. The only one she wanted to take her up on her offer had never paid his tab anyway. She didn't leave him to the very last, she made a show of moving from table to table. She had his attention then.

When she sat across from him she gave him her sexiest smile. She had no idea if it _was _a sexy smile. The only body part she received compliments on was her ass. But she leaned over the table.

"You're not from here," she observed with a grin, shoving her chest outward.

He watched it. He licked his lips. _Score_.

"No," he admitted with what he likely thought was a charming smile.

"You lonely tonight, honey?"

He licked his lips again. "Yeah, I am."

She leaned in like she was sharing a secret. "You got fifty bucks? I'll keep you company a while."

He eyed her up and down again. "That's a pretty good price. You look like class, honey."

That made her pause. She looked like _class_? Hmm.

"If that's a yes, lead the way honey," she drawled with a slow smile which he returned, just as slowly. She turned sideways on the bench and slid out of the booth, offering him her hand. He took it and she pulled him to his feet.

"You got a room here already?" she asked with a smile.

"Of course. Follow me, baby."

Bleck. But she managed to smile anyway and fell into step behind him.

Patrick McManus led her to his room, opened the door and motioned her in ahead of him.

Her heart was pounding against the wall of her chest, and she could feel sweat spring to her skin, especially under the leather skirt. It chafed her thigh holster.

He shut the door. She turned with a coy smile. "Do you mind if I freshen up in the bathroom?" she asked, cute and shy, turning on her heel and setting her purse down on the dresser. It was stocked with nothing but lipstick and condoms. She was a stickler for "props."

"Sure."

She knew he'd say that. He always killed them in the bathroom.

"But honey?" She turned and he was holding out a tissue. "Wipe that lipstick off."

Heart chilled, she took the tissue, wiped at her lips then tossed the tissue in the garbage on the way to the bathroom. Claire flicked the light on and shut the door most of the way. She reached under the skirt hem and pulled out the Glock. She put it in the back of her waistband for a quicker draw, then waited.

It wasn't a long wait at all. She pretended to start washing her hands, and he pushed the door open behind her.

Claire's heart went jackrabbit-speed but she gave him her brightest smile. "You're eager," she teased with a wink.

He grabbed her hips, pressing wet, slobbery kisses to her neck. She paused a moment, worried she might have got it wrong. Maybe he wasn't a killer. Maybe he _was _just a lonely salesman.

_Shit_.

His hands went to her breasts, and he squeezed hard. She had to make sure he didn't push into her back so much he noticed the gun.

"Wait big guy," she breathed, faking a giggle. "Let's get more comfortable in the other room."

That's when he grabbed her by the back of the neck and tried to slam her face down on the counter.

Claire was half-expecting it. She braced both arms and absorbed it, then when he pulled her up to try again she brought her head back into his nose. It cracked it wide open, and she was a bit stunned herself for a moment. He cursed, tried to get hold of her again by wrapping her up in a big bear hug. She flailed out since he pinned her gun behind her back like this. She came up with the hair dryer.

She cracked him in the face with it again, and he let go of her for a moment. It was enough to spin away from him, and in doing so he stumbled forward into the vanity. It also meant the cord got caught around his neck.

She didn't hesitate. She yanked the hair dryer one way, grabbing the end coming out of the wall with the other hand and pulling on that, too.

Then she just held on.


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter will seem familiar to the Holiday Anarchy readers.**

* * *

His tongue was flapping, arms and legs flailing as he fought to breathe. She stared at the reflection of the both of them in the mirror, indifferent as this slug of a man turned red then purple, the cord from the hotel's complimentary built-in hair dryer biting into the fat fucker's throat. It was also cutting the circulation to her fingers; she noticed they were white. But he was obviously worse off at the moment.

She could have laughed, which might have been a side effect of the adrenalin. He looked so _pissed off _to be dying. Like he hadn't followed her into the bathroom to beat her head against the floor until she was woozy, violate and stab her through the heart then leave her for dead.

Who should be angry, really?

The best thing about abusers and killers of women was that they never considered the possibility that they could be the prey themselves.

Claire had nothing that she could take to her bosses to nail his ass to the wall. So rather than wait for more people to die, this seemed the better play.

His body eventually sagged, and his substantial weight fell to his knees. She let him flop forward, keeping the pressure long after he stopped moving, just to be sure he was gone. She wasn't sure if they'd been very noisy; she hoped no one heard anything.

She flicked the light off as she left the bathroom, rounded a corner to the hotel room, and as she scanned the room she gasped, jumped back and had her Glock out of her waistband before she could even blink. The tall, dark-haired, leather-and-denim clad man in the hotel room leaning casually against the dresser already had a Beretta out and trained on her. Whereas she was startled he was remarkably calm, which made her more nervous.

There was a weird stand-off moment where they just stared at each other. He had his head cocked to the side, and his ice-blue eyes traced down her legs to her feet them back up her body, slower, and she would have shivered from it if she wasn't frozen in place.

Shit. Her first time going vigilante and she was busted; snuck up on as some guy in an MC kutte walks right into the room without her knowing it.

"Here's a tip, sweetheart," he said in an odd, nonplussed cadence and tone. Like he was telling her how to make a fucking soufflé. "When committing a major felony, lock the fucking door."

She took a deep breath, realized she was breathing deep, and caught how his eyes went to her chest. She'd dressed to catch the dead sicko's attention, and now she felt as good as naked. Not just from the outfit, but because she was in a town she didn't know, and she sure as hell didn't know the hierarchy of motorcycle clubs. She knew, residence-wise, they stuck to smaller communities like this one. She was from the big city, and all she knew was what they were taught at the academy. She didn't know if they beat women, raped, or killed them as a rule. She wouldn't have the element of surprise with this guy.

"Who's the stiff?" he asked, smiling out of nowhere, a chuckle in his voice. "He sure didn't see you coming, did he baby?"

"What do you want?" There, that was good. She found a voice.

He raised his eyebrows and straightened up, then tucked his firearm into the waistband of his jeans, at his back. "I don't want anything. I heard the noise. I was in the next room with a … friend. We were done, don't worry. She just left. But …" he took a step towards her and she made a point of raising the Glock, proud of how steady her hand was. He stopped abruptly, brought both hands up, palms out, and kept talking like she hadn't threatened him. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. Once you were done with fatty in there."

She had no response.

It didn't bother him. He kept talking, again like they were in the aisle of a grocery store. "You make sure you take everything with you that you touched, sweetheart. Including the tissue in the trash can over there. You wiped off your lipstick? There could be DNA on that. "

Her blood chilled slightly. "How long were you watching?"

His smile curled up one side of his mouth more than the other and her skin crawled a bit. "I was hoping for a show. You dress like a pro babe, and the blinds weren't closed tight."

"You're a fucking pervert," she accused, her blood once again hot.

"Do I like watching? Who doesn't? Like I was infringing on something private and sacred. Please. I thought you were a whore. And your ass looks pretty good in that leather."

"Back away," she snapped, and he did. It was unexpected, and she stilled again to study him closer. He was ogling her, blatant about it, and she couldn't find it in her to be really bothered. Something felt strange when he suggested she looked … _hot_ in this getup.

She lowered the Glock, and he dropped his hands, his face unchanging. He knew she wouldn't plug him. She tucked the gun away in her waistband, pulling the studded and shredded blouse over the grip. His eyes ran over her chest yet again, and her shiver from before turned into something else.

His eyes ran back to her face and she actually inhaled through her mouth. That made him grin wider. Shit, she was a goddamn open book.

"The blood's running hot, isn't it?"

Claire didn't answer, couldn't look away from his eyes.

"Kinda … worked up right now?"

She swallowed, trying to figure out why she wasn't trying to get away from him. His face was heavily lined, his nose hooked, chin and upper lip sporting a goatee that was roughly maintained. The neck of his button-down was open. She could see a leather necklace of some kind, a trace of a tattoo on his chest to the side, starting up his neck. She couldn't make out what it was, and for some reason that was attractive, too.

"Yeah, that adrenalin can be a bitch, right?"

Her skin was nearly buzzing, and she wanted this man to put his rough, square hands on her. When he licked his lips her nipples hardened.

"What the fuck," she whispered, hand to her forehead.

He moved fast. His hands came to her arms, clamping above her elbows and pressing his mouth on hers hard. He smelled like cigarette smoke, liquor, leather, and horrible perfume. She didn't care about any of that. The heat from his hands, lips and tongue were intoxicating. It was all rough; his grip on her, the way his facial hair scraped her chin, the way his teeth hit hers, pinching her lip and only hurting in a good way.

He pulled away, not letting go. "What's your name?" he rasped, licking his lips again and it was the most amazing thing she'd seen lately.

"Jane," she lied, not even trying to sell it.

"Okay. You be Jane. I'll be Tarzan," he snarled, pulling her in for another kiss.

She let their mouths touch, then she stopped and pushed him away. He let her go, backed off, which was surprising, but his eyes were hooded and hot still. "Don't," she said, stupidly.

"Fucking is great after killing, sweetheart. Believe me."

"Don't."

"You wet?"

Claire's head jerked back and she stomped around him, putting on a show of being angry. But truthfully she _was_ wet. Fucking drenched, and it was humiliating.

She found herself outside the motel room, realizing she'd left her purse inside and thus her keys as well. As she ran herself down for lack of intelligence her patent leather clutch appeared in front of her. "Forgot something, honey."

She snatched it from his hand and moved to her ride, pulling her keys out. She tried to ignore this odd, wild stranger, but as she hiked her skirt up high on her thighs, high enough that the holster showed, and threw her leg over the seat of her Harley Softtail Classic she caught sight of him leaning against a support of the awning spanning the walkway in front of the rooms. His eyes burned, and she put her attention back to knocking the kickstand up and pulling on her lid.

"You rode a bike in that skirt, babe?" he drawled, and when she looked up again he made sure she noticed when he adjusted his crotch.

To answer, she put the key in the ignition and started the engine. Even the noise and the rumble cranked up her arousal, looking at him like this. Then he pulled out a tissue, showing the red lipstick she'd wiped off at the dead guy's insistence, and he actually waved goodbye to her with it, like a lady with a handkerchief.

She thought of her DNA being left behind like that, how some day it might bite her in the ass. But she couldn't stay, and she sure as hell wasn't getting close to him again. So she wasted no more time pulling away and heading for the town limits of this _Charming _place.


	5. Chapter 5

Claire turned the foyer light back on and Garfield greeted her with an annoyed "Mwar" as he rubbed against her legs. She gave him a half-hearted ear scratch, got his dinner ready then dragged her exhausted ass up the stairs to her bedroom.

She tossed the clothes into the wash, not the leather obviously, stowed her gun in her safe and dressed in drawstring cotton shorts and tank for bed. Garfield followed her around the house like he knew she was a bit off, giving a "Mwar" when she would freeze, deep in thought, prompting her back into action.

She had a glass of milk to help herself get to sleep. She _still_ felt cranked up, even after that long bike ride back. She had stopped to change clothes at a gas station on the other side of Charming but other than that she'd ridden right through the two hour stretch to get home. She couldn't lose the memory of glacial blue eyes. Hot, rough hands on her skin. A mouth hitting hers so hard it almost bruised her. A voice belonging to someone she didn't even know asking if she was wet, and she'd wanted to tell him she was.

She really had.

It wasn't just _pleasure_. That was the most aroused she'd ever been in her life. Not from killing someone, just that sense that a man had dared to look at her like that and talk to her like that, letting her know he wanted her. That he'd take her if she was offering.

When she climbed into bed, Garfield jumped up onto the bed and curled into a purring ball at her feet. But after tossing and turning his patience was gone and he leapt off the bed to find calmer pastures.

"Thank you," she mumbled, reaching for her nightstand drawer. She was going to need battery-operated help to get rid of the edge that had her so uneasy.

Eyes closed, pinching her own nipple and using all the offered features of her vibrator she had a toe-curling, mind-numbing orgasm with only one thought in her head; that dark-haired, leather-clad stranger that was witness to her committing a homicide. It was the best climax she'd ever had in her life, and that was saying something because Mark was no slouch in that department at all.

It was the ultimate scratching of an itch. When she nestled back into her pillow under the covers she fell fast into a dreamless sleep.

…

"Cicero! Trenton! In here!"

Claire and Mark exchanged looks on their way to the Sheriff's office. Any guesses to what this could be about would be useless. It could be they were being asked to do parade detail or switch desks.

Manteca's sheriff was a nice guy, Claire liked him plenty. But he was kind of a weirdo that got strange ideas in his head so this beckoning could really be for _anything._

"Shut the door," he greeted them with, and Mark obliged while Claire plopped into one of the padded chairs in front of his desk. Then Mark was sitting in the other chair next to her and she was fastidious about keeping her eyes on the Sheriff.

Kevin Grey moved his grey eyes from one of them to the other while he spoke. "Dead body found last night at a motel outside of Charming, thought you should know. Some poor schmuck got strangled, sounds like it was done by his hired date. But it turns out that this particular motel is a spot where joint departments were looking to start a sting looking for this escort killer."

Now she shared a look with Mark, but she was sure it was for different reasons.

"They want to start tomorrow night. Now, there aren't a lot of ladies available for these stings. Charming's only female officer is seven months pregnant and assigned to a desk. And our two options are Deanna Kostner and you, Claire."

Mark snorted and covered his mouth. Claire shot him a look as the Sheriff continued.

"Since Deanna wouldn't attract the most desperate man in the county we need to ask you, Claire, to be our bait."

Claire scoffed. "I don't think that's a professional thing to say about a dedicated and decorated member of this department," she pointed out.

Grey shook his head. "Don't bullshit me, you know I'm right."

Deanna Kostner had an odd, rectangular upper body shape and short scrawny legs. Her short hair was very curly and she had an unfortunate dental situation her parents couldn't afford to fix when she was growing. She was very good at her job, a nice person and made a fantastic garlic-cheese dip she brought to every department potluck because once when she didn't there was nearly a riot. All that aside, she wasn't attractive and she'd make terrible bait.

Claire sighed. "Okay. When?"

"Tomorrow night. That motel is right across from a truck stop so we'll be able to nab dozens of johns," the Sheriff went on, not even thanking her for agreeing without argument. "They just wanted our women but I talked them into taking you too, Trenton."

Mark frowned and Claire felt a little panic. "How come?" Mark asked.

"Our girl is going to be locked in a room with truckers. Even with people listening and watching I want one of ours there making sure she's okay, someone I know can kick some ass. You'll be posing as her pimp."

Mark's frown deepened. "Is this a _black _thing?"

Grey looked offended. "Yeah, that's right. I also expect a basketball tournament to break out so I want to make sure the sting team is stacked in our favour. Pull your head out of your ass, Trenton."

Claire laughed at that and even Mark cracked a smile.

"Just take care of our girl. Make sure Charming PD treats her right. I know the Sheriff down there. Rumour has it he's in the pocket of a motorcycle club that's running the entire town. I don't trust him."

Claire felt a warm surge at that, the knowledge that her boss was this worried about her. Then something else moved in, a sick uneasy tremor in her gut that was also linked to the words _motorcycle club_. In Charming. Which would be a link to the only witness there was to what she had done.

Oh … _shit_.

"… and it'll be fine. Right Claire?"

She jumped when Mark said her name. "What?"

"We'll go down, put some johns in jail, come home and it'll all be good. Right?"

Mark was giving her his _professional _smile, and she returned it. "Right," she agreed, maybe a bit too brightly, and turned the smile to her boss.

"Good. I'll place the call. Let you guys know when and where they want you. Now get back to work."

With that they were dismissed, and Mark paused next to her desk. "You all right with this?" he asked, sounding somewhat concerned.

She nodded. "Yeah. Just a prostitution sting. They happen all the time, right?"

"I'll make sure you're okay," he promised. "Plus, this'll be something a little out of the ordinary."

_Out of the ordinary _was overrated, but she couldn't explain that one clear enough given her latest extracurricular activities. So instead she played it cute. "You're just hoping for an overnight stay," she accused, low and private.

That made him grin. "Maybe." Then with a wink he headed back to his own desk.

Claire stared at her blotter. Normally she'd be thrilled to be included in a multi-department sting like this. It was exciting, and like Mark said, out of the ordinary. It was good for the career, too.

Claire just didn't want to go back to Charming. She had been certain she could manage to stay away from that little burg for the rest of her existence. But it was her _job _sending her right to that spot. She chewed her thumbnail, some doubt creeping into her brain. She was a cop. She knew how rare a truly clandestine crime was. And there was still that tissue with her lipstick.

All she had to do was stay away from bikers, that couldn't be too hard. Right? They didn't usually associate with just regular prostitutes, right?

_I was in the next room with a … friend. We were done, don't worry. She just left._

Shit. Double-shit motherfucker.

Claire was in trouble.


	6. Chapter 6

"You cunt – you _fucking cunt_!"

Claire gave a salute to the trucker that two of Charming PD's officers were dragging from her motel room. Not _her _motel room, exactly. Her pretend-hooker-room.

This asshole had the nerve to tell her fifty bucks was too much for a blowjob. Not even her assurances she was good at it seemed to change his mind. He said for a hundred he wanted to fuck her in the ass so she said okay. He agreed. And the officers moved in.

"I get you alone I'm getting it all for free bitch!"

Claire just turned to Charming's deputy sheriff with raised eyebrows. "I feel so bad putting assholes in jail."

David Hale looked incredulous. "Really?"

She laughed. "Not at all."

Hale shook his head with a rueful smile. "You're doing a great job, by the way."

"Thank you, Deputy," she said, pleased. "This is kinda fun, actually. More fun than putting the hookers in jail, really."

"I agree," he shared in a confidential tone. "Whenever some asshole calls saying a hooker robbed him I drag my heels getting to the scene."

She fluffed her hair in the mirror. "Very progressive of you," she muttered, and she wasn't sure since she was looking at him out the corner of her eye but he might have blushed a little.

"Everything still going okay?" Mark was coming through the adjoining room, and she had to fight down a laugh. He was wearing a baggy navy blue Addidas track suit with a gold chain around the neck. Fucking _ridiculous_, but apparently around here it helped people believe he was a pimp.

Claire nodded. "I'm fine. It's going good, thanks."

Mark nodded. "Good. I'm heading back to that truck stop across the street. Those good ole' boys may not like me but they're hoping I'm peddling chocolate pussy, I can tell you that."

Claire made a face. "Mark, please. The tone."

He winked. "Toughen up and get to work, bitch."

She shook her head and turned back to Hale, who looked a bit taken aback. "Don't worry," she assured him turning back to the mirror to touch up her lip gloss. "I can take the blue language."

"That's … that's good then," Hale muttered and headed back to the adjoining room, shutting the door behind him. She shut her door as well but it was rigged not to lock so the deputies on the other side could open it.

She circled back to the foot of the bed, collapsing down to her butt and crossing her legs to wait. It took about twenty minutes for the hook to be baited, as it turned out. Her door opened and Mark led in her next john.

Claire was standing and giving her most brilliant smile, and she was sure it froze unnaturally at the man walking in behind Mark.

Shit. The biker. Who caught her killing Patrick McManus. And he was already smiling before he even set eyes on her.

Double shit; he'd made them somehow.

"One hour," Mark warned, his street-tough accent seeming even more phony with the biker smiling at her like he had her right where he wanted her. Then her _pimp _was gone and she was on her own with her next _john._

She was frozen in place, but he unfortunately wasn't. He strode right for her, hands on his belt. He stepped close to her side, eyes running up her body. Claire tried to ignore the warmth of him, the thrill she felt at this closeness.

"Hey sweetheart," he said low, close to her ear. It wouldn't be loud enough for the microphones to pick up. Her back was to the camera, so they didn't see it when her eyes closed as his breath tickled her cheek.

"What … what are you doing here?" she whispered eventually.

"Saw you come in here this afternoon. Watched the johns coming in, not coming out. Pretty obvious, really." He inhaled and it spiked right between her legs. "Where's the wig?"

She blinked furiously. She had gone with her own short hair for this sting. She hadn't considered the wig since she'd been wearing it and seen in it with the man she'd killed.

"Take this under technical advisement," her biker was saying, his voice rumbling more when he spoke low like this. "But men like a whore with long hair. Something to grab onto, wrap around your wrist and yank her head back while you fuck her from behind. You might do more trade with longer hair." He chuckled and she felt it over every inch of skin she had. "By the way. I burned that guy's day-planner. You forgot about that, didn't you? I also figured you might be in his phone, so I had a friend delete his records."

She balked at that a bit. "Phone records are locked without a warrant."

He shrugged. "Only on your side of the thin blue line."

She swallowed hard, mind already reeling from what he'd told her. "Please … don't say anything," she pleaded, turning her slightly his way. Not far enough that a lip-reader knew what she was saying in profile.

"What's in that for me?" he asked, moving a half inch closer so his shirt front brushed her bare arm. His eyes ran over her face, down her neck and over her chest. She felt that gaze again; it was warm, hot, wanting. She wanted his mouth to follow it.

"What's that mean?" she whispered, suddenly remembering what he said.

He licked his bottom lip, and it was fascinating. Her eyes tracked it, her cheeks growing warm. His smile came slow. Scary yet sexy. "I gotta get something for covering that sweet ass of yours."

She swallowed, knowing this was a baiting question but asking it anyway. "What do you want?"

"I think you know, honey," he all but breathed it on her, and as his head came closer she snapped.

She jumped away, shouting "Move in! Move in!"

The biker's grin went triumphant as the doors sprung open. Deputies cuffed him and he didn't struggle, just kept his eyes on her, smiling the whole time, as they led him away.

"What did he say to you?" Deputy Hale was asking, suddenly close to her.

She jumped, putting a hand to her head. "Sorry, I was waiting for you guys to just jump to. When you didn't … I panicked I guess."

Mark was on her other side suddenly, hand on her lower back. "Did he touch you? What happened?"

"Claire," Hale said on a laugh, looking concerned. "We couldn't hear anything. We can't arrest him, we have nothing on him."

She blinked a couple times, brain catching up with what he was saying. "Shit," she sighed. "You're right. I fucked this one up."

"What's going on, Claire?" Mark was asking.

She blinked at Hale then looked back to Mark. "I fucked up. I just panicked. He … got to me I guess."

"Did he touch you?" Mark repeated.

"He didn't touch her," Hale confirmed. "We were watching. I know him, he's not the type actually."

Mark seemed appeased. Claire was trying to figure out how to make this seem like no big deal. "I got light headed. I was having trouble focussing. And he … he was just so close."

Mark took her arm. "I think she's done," he told Hale.

Hale was already nodding. "Yeah. We'll call it a night. We got fifteen johns to cart off to holding now. Not a bad haul. We'll see if anyone's activities match up to our murdered escorts."

Claire nodded with a thankful smile. "Thank you, Deputy," she said, offering her hand which he took. "I'm sorry I flaked out, I just …"

Hale nodded and let her hand go. "I've known Tig Trager a long time. He gives _everyone _the creeps; don't worry about it."

Clarie nodded, then turned back to Mark. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. I fucked it up."

Mark's eyes were almost _too _damn smart and she felt annoyed with him for his intuition. "What. Happened." He punctuated each word, and she knew she wasn't off the hook.

"The guy gave me the creeps," she hissed back, low. "Okay? I don't know why. You saw him."

Mark's jaw worked like he was literally chewing that over. "Okay," he said softly, giving her that play. "You're sure he never touched you?"

"Yes," she answered, relieved he was letting up. "He didn't lay a finger on me. Hale's right; I fucked this one up because we never discussed a deal, and he never laid a hand on me."

"Was he saying _anything _to you? He was in here a while?"

Well, shit. Claire sighed. "Just the usual. Asking if my tits were real. What was on offer. We just never got to the subject of money."

Mark rubbed her arm. "Okay. Go get changed. Let's head back home."

Not speaking, she just nodded her agreement and headed for the washroom where she'd stashed jeans and a flannel shirt. Shutting herself inside she leaned back, resting her head on the hollow-core door. When she closed her eyes she was surprised to find herself still … well, excited.

_I gotta get something for covering that sweet ass of yours._

She made a sound just from the memory of that voice. She had been around the bad-boy type and found herself interested in them before. But this guy …

Maybe it _was _because of the adrenalin when she'd first met him. A Pavlovian response that had her aroused just from seeing, hearing him again. And she wanted him, she was completely open to the idea of giving her body to that man. Letting him do whatever he would with her.

She shook her head, pulling off the skin-tight tank she'd had on and pulling the flannel overtop. But when she was free of the skirt she _did _allow a moment to tuck her hand inside the front of her underwear. She couldn't help it; it was to the point of discomfort. When she came it was with her eyes closed, whimpering, the memory of blue eyes and a low chuckle taking her over the edge.


	7. Chapter 7

Claire moaned low in her throat, Mark's knowing chuckle kicking up her arousal about five points. She didn't care, she never felt stupid that she enjoyed sex. She just shoved her hips back into his groin, taking him deeper, groaning again and smiling as he did the same.

His fingers bit into her hips, pulling out and then yanking back on her as he rammed home again. Her hands tightened on the headboard, her face dropped to the pillow and absorbed the sounds she was making.

"Fuck," he grunted, hands sliding up her rib cage, pulling at her nipple hard, making her cry out again. "Jesus, CeeCee. What's going on? Never had you this hot before."

It was true. She was aching for a good and proper fuck since she'd screwed up that sting operation. It wasn't a mystery to her why. She'd been getting good use of her vibrator the last three nights and when Mark had asked to meet the time couldn't come fast enough.

"Mark …" she gasped. "Harder. Please."

"Not yet," he grunted, sliding in and out evenly, feeling like a tease. She groaned in protest, trying to push back but now his hold on her hips was hard, unmovable. He was going to torture her.

"Been thinking about this ass all day."

She closed her eyes, teeth gritting. She wanted it hard, fast and done. He was going to piss her off if he didn't get to it. He'd gone down on her, which was rare for them, but it hadn't been nearly enough. She wanted the rough treatment so the orgasm hit her like a truck.

"Wanna take my time, baby. Get you out of your mind first."

"I am," she panted, trying to move, instead losing him entirely. "What the fuck, Mark?"

He rolled her over to her back, up on his arms, then shoved into her again. She closed her eyes, sighing. This was good, she could work with this. When she opened her eyes again she could see him watching where his body was thrusting into her, a half-smile on his face. She was so close, on the cusp, it wouldn't take much. Claire touched her nipple, bending her back from the feeling, groaning.

"No," he snapped, grabbing her wrist and holding her hand over her head against the pillow.

"Mark," she gasped, eyes widening in surprise.

"You come with just my cock today, baby."

That made her shudder. She was so surprised she let him hold both her hands with one of his, pinned overhead, his other hand coming to clasp the front of her neck. "Is that hitting the spot baby?"

"Yes," she whispered, eyes on his. They were hot, dark, hooded, trailing over her body as he did what he wanted with her.

Jesus, that was so hot.

"You come for me now, CeeCee," he muttered, and she was about to ask him how the hell he thought he could command such a response but for whatever reason, it happened.

The released bloomed behind her bellybutton, bowing her back upwards, a scream tearing out of her throat. Her body tensed, then released along with it, peace and calm washing over her while he planted into her deep and grunted his own release, forehead on her collarbone.

There was no sound in the room outside of their breathing for a long moment, then she had to laugh. "Holy shit," she whispered.

Mark got off of her, sitting on the edge of the bed. She thought he was getting rid of the condom, but he was actually running both hands over his head.

"Mark?" she whispered softly, too limp to do much more than turn her head to him. "You okay?"

"Terry's pregnant," he said hollowly, and she felt her stomach solidify into ice.

"Shit," she whispered, eyes going back to the motel room ceiling.

"I … I can't do this anymore. I came here to tell you that tonight."

Claire sat up, pulling her underwear up and then looking for her jeans on the floor. "So you saved that for now?" she laughed dryly. "I get it. You're only an asshole for cheating on your wife when she's pregnant. Everything before now has been okay."

He said nothing. Just got up and headed for the shower as usual. She pulled on the rest of her clothes then stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind herself and heading for her bike.

Halfway to the Harley she felt like someone was watching, cutting through her shock. Disappointment. Anger. Maybe even _relief_. So she stopped, turning to the street.

"Shit," she whispered, feeling heat hit her face at the same time as fear gripped her stomach.

That fucking biker. Again. Sitting at the curb next to the motel's parking lot, leaning on his bike, arms and ankles crossed like he was waiting for a bus. Looking right at her.

Stupidly, Claire froze right where she was. Her brain was processing the fact that he likely followed her, or Mark, somehow. He knew what they were up to. He knew a _lot _about her, actually. None of it good. And just as all this was going through her mind he quite suddenly smiled, and that surprised her as well.

It also brought her back online. She turned to her bike, grabbed her helmet and yanked it on more forcefully than it really warranted. She was going home. He would follow her, discover where she lived. Not that he couldn't figure that out whenever he wanted. He knew where she worked now. She was fucked.

Claire drove too fast, weaving in and out of traffic like a madwoman. In her mirrors she still saw him, right behind her. She didn't really expect to lose him; no way she was a more skilled rider than an actual biker.

She pulled into her spot and was striding up the stairs to her apartment while taking off her helmet when he caught up with her. "You're in a hurry, sweetie," he drawled.

Claire ignored the effect his voice had, instead sorting through her keys to find the one to her front door. Then she dropped the whole ring.

He beat her to it, bending it pick up. She stepped closer to the front of her building, eyes now taking a moment to assess him. He had one foot on the concrete walkway, the other on the top step, legs splayed and boxing her in at the same time. One hand was on his bent knee, the other twirled her keys around a finger. While she was appreciating his unabashed position he slid off his sunglasses then returned to spinning her keys around one finger.

She licked her lips. She couldn't help it. She was inexplicably attracted to him, and it didn't matter that Mark had just given her a hell of a good ride before supremely pissing her off. She was as good as ready _again_.

"Well now Officer," he said, tucking his sunglasses in a pocket in his button-down, under his kutte. "You're painting quite the portrait of yourself."

She swallowed. "Are you following me around?"

"Just confirming a suspicion. The way your partner came running into that sting the other night, thinking someone had manhandled you …" he shook his head. "That was kind of a giveaway. You might want to warn him about that shit. I caught it and I don't even know you."

Claire felt her blood slow a bit at that. Shit, it never dawned on her that people might be able to sniff out what she and Mark were up to. "Well, that's not a worry anymore."

He cocked his head. "Lover's tiff?"

"I can't talk about this here," she hissed, grabbing the keys from him and turning to her door.

"He's your neighbour."

At that her heart actually stopped, but she only paused for a moment before getting her door open and shoving her way inside. Before she could shut the door his hand caught the side, and she backed up, her heart racing now in fear.

His blue eyes tracked her face, the way her chest was rising and falling. "Relax," he whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Just blackmail me and get it over with," she snapped back.

Now he outright grinned. "Ahh. Cut to the chase, hey?"

She had no answer.

"All right. I'm coming back here tomorrow night. You're wearing what you wore the night you killed that guy. Minus the wig. You make no other plans for the rest of the night."

Oh Jesus. Shit. He _did _want what she thought he wanted. And to her embarrassment she wasn't outraged. She was turned on. Again. "What if I say no?"

He shrugged. "Anonymous call to a CrimeStoppers line, babe. All it takes."

She swallowed again, arguments dying on her tongue.

"I ain't gonna hurt you," he assured her, tilting his chin down and raising his eyebrows. "It's gonna be nice, babe."

There was a quiver in her thighs from that, and the whole blackmail thing was such bullshit. He knew what she wanted as much as she knew what he was after. But it was as though he was giving her an outlet for her guilt or something.

"When?" she asked, voice shaky. "What time are you coming over?"

He grinned again, wild, insane looking. "Late," he promised. "Wait up for me, babe." Then he pulled his sunglasses out and shoved away from the doorway, turning away and trotting down the steps to his bike.

Claire shut the door, breathing hard, heart lightly tripping its way to catch up with her respiration. What the hell had she gotten herself into now?


	8. Chapter 8

Claire checked the clock for the eightieth time in fifteen minutes. This freaking staff meeting was taking too fucking long, and she was so distracted she couldn't track what they were even talking about.

"Now for the good news," Sheriff Grey continued and Claire brought her attention back to him. "Next week the kids' charity bike ride is taking place, and you all get to play parade marshals to make sure that none of that biker bullshit interferes in their goodwill initiatives."

The room was nodding. Claire felt eyes on her, knew they were Mark's and pointedly ignored him.

"It's not volunteer work," the Sheriff reminded him. "It's actually a pretty cushy gig. So I hope to see you all sign up." Then he took his damn time looking over his papers before finally saying, "All right, that's it. Dismissed."

Claire was the first one through the door, stalking to her desk for her bag to change and her keys to get the hell out of there. Working with Mark all day had been hell. The long silences, the times he'd tried to _talk _to with no one else around, she'd had about as much as she could take.

"Claire, at least look at me dammit," she heard Mark hiss and she turned, finding him square in her way.

"About what?" she whispered back. "We just fucked, Mark. That's all there was to us. You don't want that anymore, we don't have _anything_."

"You gotta play it cooler than that," he snapped back, looking around to see if anyone was taking note of their chat. Of course, no one was. It was shift change, after all.

"Give me a day to get over being pissed off," she asked sharply. "Can you just do that? Before you get all _wise _and _all-knowing _with me?" The she stalked past him to the washroom, changed out of uniform and headed right out of the office and to her bike.

At home she poured a large glass of red wine for herself and ran a bath. It felt like her night was going to be … _special_, so she put in some effort before her guest arrived. She added some oil-infused bubble bath that smelled like vanilla icing. Then she soaked a long while, finished the wine and shaved her legs. While she was still slightly damp she smeared vanilla-scented lotion all over, feeling it soak in and soften her skin. Then she headed for her closet and, air drying herself while standing there naked, she pulled out her tramp outfit from the night she'd killed that asshole.

Claire laid the outfit out on the bed, hand trailing over the leather skirt. Just from that her heart quickened, and she was back to remembering those wild blue eyes and dark mad crop of hair. The smell of wild places she'd never been. A face haggard from a rough, take-what-he-wants-life.

She went to her dresser and pulled open her lingerie drawer, selecting a pair of black lace panties and matching balconette bra. She had a black garter belt, which she also dug out, fastening it around her hips before pulling the panties on overtop of the straps. She also found nightshade stockings and rolled them on as well, clipping them in place. Then the skirt went on followed by the bra and top.

Claire rarely wore make-up. Not out of some strange feminist ideology. She just hated taking the time, and then you had to mind your eyes and powder all day. A hassle. Now she put it all on; smoky eye shadow, lined thick and black. A bit of blush. No-smear, deep red lipstick. Her short dark hair she slicked right down, brushed back from her face.

Claire hadn't seen herself look like this in a _long_ time. She hadn't taken these lengths when she was undercover.

Another glass of wine disappeared while she waited, legs tucked up next to her on her sofa. Garfield, having been fed, was sitting on the back of an armchair and staring out the front window, like he usually did on TV nights.

She passed an hour, squirming every time headlights passed her front windows. As night wore on Claire started to expect she'd been led on, made to feel ridiculous. And she felt absolutely stupid.

At eleven she'd decided to change out of the getup. After waiting another half-hour that was. Just before midnight she finally turned off the TV and turned off the light outside her front door. She was heading up her stairs when the sound of a bike stopped her, and she turned back to her front door.

Just from that sound her pulse quickened again, her mouth felt wet. She slowly padded down her steps, approached her door and unlocked the deadbolt. Then she backed away and waited, her breathing shallow. Anticipatory. She could hear footsteps on the concrete stoop and she held her breath.

The knob turned. Her thighs twitched. The door swung inward and she backed up more. That was when her moment of clarity hit. What was she _doing_? This was insane.

Then he was there, in the light spilling down from the top of the stairs. He kept those eyes on her as he closed the door behind him, even turning the deadbolt over. Her skin was tingling just from his gaze.

They just stared at each other, but she felt no urge to speak. He was large inside her entryway, shoulders wide with how he stood, arms crooked, hands on his hips. All in black.

"You're wearing the outfit," he noted, voice gravelly and strange in tone.

Claire nodded, unable to answer yet because she was still holding her breath.

"Good girl," he said, approaching with deliberate steps. He stopped a mere six inches away and she nearly swayed to him. "You know what I'm here for, right?"

Claire nodded, then she managed to swallow at least.

"Good." He backed up again, looking her up and down. Just from this she was wet, trembling even. "Come here," he said, voice very low.

Claire took the two steps that brought her to him, their clothing brushing.

He moved his arms, his hands coming to rest on each side of her throat. They were warm, rough, and felt strong. She closed her eyes at that contact.

"Jesus, are you that primed already?" he asked with a chuckle, and she felt heat flood her face.

Claire opened her eyes again, a bit of frustration cutting through her arousal.

"Easy," he crooned, thumb stroking along her throat. "I like it. Don't lose it, honey."

She felt that touch everywhere quite suddenly, and her head fell back a bit.

"That's it," he kept talking to her in that low, grumbling voice. "Just let it build, baby."

_Jesus,_ she thought absently. This was the most turned on she'd ever been in her life.

She felt him move closer, she looked up at his face and wasn't sure what she saw there. Hunger, definitely. Maybe that was all there was. "You with me, officer?" he asked with a hint of teasing again.

She exhaled finally, nodding. She actually couldn't speak.

He was nodding with her, then he lowered his face, bringing his mouth to hers slowly, way too slow. She was impatient and she went up to her toes, her lips hitting his squarely.

Without hesitation his hands dropped to clamp onto her hips. She was yanked into that hold, chest crushed to his, her arms instinctively resting on his, hands clutching at his shoulders. She was aware of his body, how hard and imposing he seemed, but his mouth was the primary focus of her attention.

His beard and moustache scraped at her skin, very masculine. The way his lips sealed around hers was incredibly exciting. The kind of kiss where that much attention to detail made other parts of her tremble, excited to get the same treatment. His tongue was hot in her mouth, he tasted like beer. The way he moved it in and out of her mouth had her legs weakening. The smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol and leather was a hell of a combination on him.

One of those strong hands gripped at her ass, pulling upwards on her, her hips rolling against him, finding his erection with her lower belly. She groaned, hands sliding up his neck, fisting in his hair to hold him right how he was.

She didn't know how long he kissed her, but when he parted their mouths he let go of one hip and turned his groin partially away from her, hands working to get his belt open. She kept one arms around his shoulders and lowered her other hand to help him. He brought his eyes to hers, and they held that contact while the belt gave way, his jeans came open and she thrust her hand inside.

It wasn't difficult to find what she was looking for. It was right there, hot and hard, and she closed her hand around it, watching his face go slack, eyes falling closed. It was enthralling to her to see finally see evidence that he was as strung out as she was.

Abruptly he pulled her hand away, licking his lips and turning his face to hers again. "On your knees, honey," he rasped out, panting like she was.


	9. Chapter 9

Claire had a moment of disappointment. All this and he just wanted her to go down on him? And yet she really, _really _wanted to do it.

She stepped directly in front of him, and leaned into him with her hands while she slid down his front. He broke into that wild grin, then his mouth opened to inhale as she took him in her hand, stroking softly, and slid her tongue around the ridge of his erection. She had her eyes cast upward at him, so she caught it when his eyes closed and his head lolled back, looking up at the ceiling.

It turned her on more. So she took as much of him into her mouth as she could, swallowing him to the back of her throat and then sliding her lips back up to tease his tip again. He gave a wonderful grunt, one that made another shudder go off between her legs and she sucked him deep into her mouth again.

His hands clutched at her hair, and his hips pushed against what she was doing. He held her head in place, moving into her mouth on his terms. She slid one hand underneath, cupping his sack and slightly squeezing. Just a bit.

"Fuck," he grunted, pulling her off of him by her hair. She was about to wipe spit off her lip when he grabbed her by both upper arms, yanking her to her feet to face him again.

He was breathing hard. So was she, and she was thrilled that he didn't come here just to have her suck him off. The look on his face and the heat in his eyes assured her she was getting laid.

He shrugged out of his kutte, and her hands went to the buttons of his shirt. She got two of them undone before he grabbed her hands, taking a few breaths before saying something that made her nearly come right then.

"Run," he grunted.

Her pulse went frantic. She let go of his clothing, spun, and headed for the staircase. She was halfway up when hands grabbed her hips. She went down hard on one knee, crying out from the pain that shot up her thigh, but as she was held in place, hips tight to the second step higher than her knees, she felt the leather skirt get shoved upwards. A hand was tightly gripping the back of her neck, her chest meeting another tread on the staircase, nearly knocking the breath from her. She gave another cry, but it was certainly not from pain.

"Jesus," he was muttering, pulling at her panties. Claire was whimpering, her hips squirming but she wasn't try to break free. "You really dressed up for me honey. Too bad most of it's getting fucked up."

There was a tearing sound and she gasped, feeling the underwear as it was yanked away from her crotch, the air suddenly feeling cold on her _very _wet and private skin. She didn't have time to lament her destroyed underwear. His hand cupped at her crotch, fingers wrapping around to her front and pressing deep, rolling over her clit.

Claire's head came up and she gave a deep moan, knowing that with about four more seconds of that treatment she'd climax right there.

But he didn't give that to her. He pulled away, and she looked back over her shoulder to see him, on his knees on step below hers, pulling off his shirt. Her eyes ran over his body, how square and husky it was, with a thick carpet of graying chest hair. The tattoo that teased at his neck when he was dressed was open to her eyes, another one on his right bicep. It was all wonderfully _badboy_, and she was completely caught staring.

He leaned his chest over her back, hands planted on the steps where her hips were trapped. He licked his lips, then smiled. "Run," he repeated, close to her ear.

She scrambled out from under him, breath coming hard still, ascending the stairs and heading around the corner to her hallway.

An arm caught her waist from behind, spinning her towards the wall, pressing her chest against it, his front to her back, not letting her get away. One of his legs were between hers, immobilizing her, and her skirt was still around her waist.

"Claire," his voice teased. "Your getaways are weak. I think you want me to catch you."

She felt him angle away from her body again, shifting around. There was the tearing of a foil package but she couldn't turn her head to see what was going on. Then quite suddenly he angled his body differently, his hips under her ass, and before she could track what was happening she was full of him, his cock burying itself as deep as he could, making her cry out.

"It's wrapped, don't worry," he mumbled into her ear, then he pulled out and thrust deep again.

Claire's eyes closed, and it felt like her body was _sighing _be finally getting this treatment. Two more solid thrusts and she was done, body tightening around the invading force, noticing that he had planted deep and was waiting out her orgasm.

_Jesus Christ_, was the only thought she had as her body stilled again.

She lost the heat of him as he pulled free, and as she was about to ask what was wrong he was turning her back to him, wrapping his arms around her back. She put both arms around his shoulders and the next thing she knew he had her up against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, and he was buried inside again.

"Oh God, yes," she muttered. That was the first thing she'd said since he stepped into her house. One of his hands was at the back of her neck, the other on her ass holding her up.

With each thrust he was grunting deep, his face buried in her shoulder, teeth clamped on her collarbone. It was building again when he stopped, breathing heavy, taking a moment before pulling back to look at her. "This is killing my back, babe."

She panted for a moment then had to smile. "I was heading for the bedroom. You kept stopping me."

He grinned back then lifted her off and set her on her feet. Without pause Claire headed for her room, flicking on her bedside lamp and pulling off the blouse over her head.

"Slower," came his commanding voice from the doorway and she turned.

With a smile she reached behind to unzip the skirt and shimmied it down her hips, then let it hit the ground. She stepped free of it, then undid the front clasp of the bra, holding it closed while watching his face. His eyes were hot on her hands, and she'd never seen a man look so confidence with his pants undone, all the goods on display. Then he pushed his jeans down and she let the bra drop.

He sat on her bed to pull of his boots, shedding them with his jeans. She stepped in front of him and when he straightened up he held her by the hips again, pulling her close, pushing apart her legs to straddle his lap. One hand stayed on her hip, the other went between her legs pressing, teasing and touching. Keeping her eyes square on his, she rode his hand, her hips working against him until it broke again, nearly toppling her over so she had to catch herself on his shoulders with both hands. With a quick movement he had her under him, on her back, but barely on the mattress. He slid down her body, kneeling next to the bed and roughly yanking her ass to the edge. Then he threw her ankles over his shoulders and closed his mouth over her clit.

Claire groaned at that, _loud._ She was barely down twitching from the last one, and the suction of his mouth and the touch of that tongue sent her to the brink again fast. While that wave was subsiding he rose up over her again, wiping his mouth and chin, smile back on his face, and she scurried higher up onto the mattress. His hands grasped her hips and he fell upon her, thrust deep and pinned her in place. His hands caught hers, pulling them up over her head, pinning them up there in one hand as the other kept his weight raised, off her, his tempo relentless and unforgiving. Another orgasm hit and he didn't let her finish, he continued slamming into her, drawing it out for so long she was light-headed by the time he paused to let it overcome her.

And he still wasn't done with her.


	10. Chapter 10

Sleep stole away from her as she felt the bed depress at her side. The blankets were pulled down her back, and a scruffy chin scraped the skin of her shoulder blade before a kiss was pressed there.

Claire smiled, rolling to her side to see the biker leaning over her. He was dressed, everything but his kutte but they'd left that downstairs. His eyes ran across her bare breasts and despite the fact she'd only fallen asleep less than two hours ago her body still quivered, excited.

Astounding, that was the only way to describe her night. Never in her life had she been so thoroughly worked over and enjoyed. He'd choreographed the entire act, she did everything he told her to, and it had all been amazing. She'd be sore for days, and it felt as though the muscles of her legs and her insides were stretched and spent. It was bliss.

"Go back to sleep," he instructed, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"All right," she replied, nestling into her pillows again.

"I never would have turned you in. You know that, right?"

She had to grin. "I knew that."

His smile back at her was insane but pleased. "Can I come back? As long as you aren't seeing anyone, that is?"

A shudder broke out in her belly again, and she nodded. "You'd better," she whispered back, making his smile go fully wild.

"You got it," he cackled at her as he got up. "My little thriller diller."

* * *

**This will be my final fanfic - so thank you all very much for following and favouriting. These stories will be left here for a while, but eventually I'll like follow suit with Happy's Hitwoman and transfer them to The Freak Circle blog. Please continue to enjoy the free offerings of the Fanfiction world, it's been a lot of fun for me as well. There's always my Twitter feed - the handle of which is on my profile page, and it's always updated with what I'm putting on my own personal C.D. Breadner blog. The address of which is als on my profile.**

**Thanks again everyone - love 'ya to bits!**


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